


Respite

by Hope_Tang



Series: without expectation of reward or gratitude [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Healing & Recovery, Tahiti (The Other One)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 10:03:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6370507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope_Tang/pseuds/Hope_Tang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the saying goes, it doesn't take much to jump out of the pan and into the fire -- especially when the Winter Soldier tried to kill you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Marvel or Disney at all.
> 
> While this is a continuation in the same universe, this story can be read independently from _for honor and duty_

*

Death was not peaceful.

When he surfaced from the darkness, it was to a persistent electronic chirp that bobbled along the low roar of the ocean surf against the beach. It was obnoxious and cheerful and it was getting on his admittedly frayed nerves. He lifted his left arm to shut off the alarm – tried to, at least, because a jagged flash of agony ripped through him when he moved. Through long practice, he choked down his groan of pain and concentrated on counting out his breaths.

“Oh,” said a woman in pleased surprise before a pair of small hands settled on his forearm a moment later, “you’re awake.”

He flinched away from the touch, but she easily kept him still on the hard mattress. The escape attempt earned him a disapproving cluck of concern. “Tranquille, Monsieur, s’il vous plait. Easy, you don’t want to tear out your stitches.”

_Stitches?_ floated through his muddled thoughts as he tried to work out the basics of his situation. _Where am I?_ was a critical question, because the last memory he had was being dosed in Howard’s — No, that wasn’t quite right, because he vaguely remembered shrieking alarms and brisk orders as the blistering sun had burnt him to a crisp. It had been a relief, then, to give into the sweet silence of the darkness.

“Can you open your eyes for me, Monsieur?”

_Right._ He was awake, but not quite. It was a struggle, but he opened his eyes to a smooth, non-hospital-regulation ceiling. The pale blue paint was another hint that he wasn’t in a SHIELD infirmary. The thought of SHIELD Medical crated a heavy curl of anxiety in his gut, right below where his side throbbed dully in time with his heartbeat.

“It’s okay,” the woman prattled to his left, rubbing one hand up and down his arm in an attempt to soothe him. “You’re safe now. You’re safe. Calm down. It’s okay. Tout va bien.”

Why did the thought of SHIELD—? _Insight. The Winter Soldier. HYDRA._ Fuck.

The electronic chirping picked up into a shrill wail. He barely heard the nurse speaking to someone else over his rising panic. _Notsafenotsafenotsafe_ consumed his world like an air raid siren. More hands, more voices, and then he plunged into silence.

*

“Easy now,” a woman coaxed, placing something wet and hard against his lips. “You’re safe.”

The ice chirps were heaven on his throat. He struggled to string his thoughts together, _what’s_ …?

“Where am I?” he slurred, feeling listless as he dragged his eyes open. The nurse’s scrubs matched the pale blue walls of his hospital room. Somewhere, an ocean rumbled against the shoreline.

“You’re safe. Vous êtes sûrs.”

“Où?” he insisted, dragging out his limited French vocabulary. “ _Où?_ ”

“You’re in Tahiti.”

Terror shot through him and the heart monitor shrieked accordingly with his panicked heartbeat. He twisted away from the restraining hands, again, without much success.

“Sir, please _calm down_ — J’ai besoin d’aide ici!” The prattle of rapid-fire French accompanied the swarm of medical personnel that flooded his room. “Juliette, j’en ai besoin maintenant!”

“No,” he rasped, trying to fight off the oxygen mask an orderly was pressing against his face. “ _No._ ” His vision blurred sickeningly before the roar of the ocean dragged him down into darkness.

*

When he surfaced again, it took him minutes, maybe hours, before he realized that he was awake. The pale blue ceiling mocked him with its obnoxious cheerfulness, and still, he could hear the wash of the ocean against the shoreline. He tried to move and found his wrists were carefully pinned to the bed with soft restraints.

“Are you with us this time?”

He rolled his head to his right to see a dark-haired person sitting by his bedside. He blinked at her, the words filtering slowly through his mind to make a vague sort of sense.

“I know it’s hard to focus. You’re on a hefty dose of sedatives,” she said slowly, as if to make it easier for him to keep track of the conversation. “It should be wearing off a little now.”

He acknowledged that drugs would explain the distance he felt from his panic, as if he had disassociated while asleep. Whatever they had him on, it was good. He barely cared about the distant ache in his side or the way the world was nothing but blurs of colors and shapes. He was blind in hostile territory, and disturbingly, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The woman set something down on his bedside table and picked up a garishly pink object. “It’s good to see you awake, Mr. Martinez.”

_That’s not my name._ Ice chips were pressed against his lips and he let them slip into his mouth, choking a little as the first drops of water hit his throat. Immediately, an arm slipped around his shoulders and lifted him up into a semi-sitting position. The faintest scent of sandalwood wafted through the air.

“Apologies,” she said, easing him back onto soft pillows when he had caught his breath from the water and the pain, “that was a mistake on my part.”

Her bland American accent had a curious undercurrent, the words oddly flat in a way that wasn’t _quite_ right for a native English-speaker. A glint of gold sparkled at the hollow of her neck.

“Where—?” he asked, sinking back into his half-reclined position, feeling his bones melt into the hard hospital bed. She stepped away him, reaching for something on the bedside table before she unfolded it in her hands.

“Here,” she told him, slipping his glasses on his face in a practiced gesture. He blinked as the world sharped into focus. The brunette woman was older than he had thought, with silver touching her hair and laugh lines around her eyes, but she moved with the ease and strength of someone less than half her age.

At a glance, he knew she was in charge – the confidence she held herself, the finely-made blouse and skirt, the discreet radio clipped to her belt, the sheathed knife hidden in the her left sleeve, and the necklace… he had seen that necklace somewhere, where? — and tried to steel himself against whatever she wanted from him. He was restrained, drugged into passivity, and— The woman shifted her stance to block his line of sight, but not before he saw the medical tray and the capped syringe on his bedside table. They had plans for him. He forced himself to keep his breathing slow and steady. He had already spent his life, _given_ his life, playing high-stakes games of cat and mouse. He could do this. He _had_ to.

Telegraphing her movements, his captor wrapped her fingers around his wrist as she replied carefully, “You are at a private residence in Tahiti.”

He inhaled as deeply as he dared, clinging to the tattered remains of his composure. “This is Tahiti?”

The woman’s blank expression was not comforting at all. “Yes.”

“How did I get here?”

“You arrived here by air transport, with several others who are in need of a…discreet place to heal and recover.”

He had to admire the ease of her evasiveness, even as he struggled to piece together his next move. Ideas drifted in and out of his reach, thoughts slipping through his grasp like butterflies as he chased them through a wet marsh.

“What do you remember?”

He didn’t say anything in response.

She acknowledged his prudence with a slight twist of her lips and a nod of the head. “Your name is Pablo Martinez and you are a government agent. You were critically injured a week ago when an undercover operation went wrong. A mutual friend of ours asked that you be airlifted from Columbia for medical treatment and a better chance at recovery.

“You’ll need some physical therapy, but the doctors tell me that you should make a decent recovery, enough to return to fieldwork, if you so choose. For now, though, you need to rest and not strain yourself. Tearing out your stitches will do you no good. You are safe here; I give you my word on that.

“You are not a prisoner,” she said mildly, stepping away from him to pick up her tablet from her seat, “but you are in my custody. Any attempt to leave the property grounds, cause disruption, or harm anyone else here will be met with lethal force.”

She gave him a sharp look. “This will be your one and only warning: You harm me or any one of my people, and I will not only hunt you down and _put you down_ , I will also personally make sure that the woman who saved your life will pay for your betrayal. Do we understand each other?”

He didn’t have any other choice, but to nod in acknowledgement of her statement. For all her gentleness, he could tell that she was more than willing and capable of carrying out her threats and he was nowhere near capable of outmaneuvering her right now. A brisk knock on the open door interrupted their staring match. 

Hovering in the doorway, a younger woman in the same conservative outfit as his captor bobbled a slight curtsey before saying apologetically, “Madame Cécile? Je suis désolée, mais Madame Chevalier voudrait parler avec vous. Elle est très insistante.”

Cécile nodded in dismissal, “D’accord, je serai là.” She turned back to him, tucking her tablet underneath her elbow. “Mr. Martinez, if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere at the moment.”

With that, he was left alone in his well-appointed jail cell to stare at the blank, cheerfully painted walls. Just what kind of people had Howard turned him over to? 

He would bide his time. He had to recover, figure out the lay of the land so to speak, and see if he had to, if he could, walk away from the game.

First, though, he had to get back into fighting shape.

A quiet _hiss-click_ was his warning signal before a cool burn invaded his veins and exhaustion flooded his mind.

_Shit_ , Jasper Sitwell sighed with resigned rancor, _out of the pan and into the fire_ before he gave into his drugged slumber.


End file.
